


Of Blood and Gold

by animesiren



Category: Game of Thrones (TV), Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Arthur is Pentoshi, Book Spoilers, Eames is a Sellsword, Inception Reverse Big Bang Challenge 2012, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-02
Updated: 2012-12-02
Packaged: 2017-11-20 02:23:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/580232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/animesiren/pseuds/animesiren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tyrion leans forward on the table. He grins and every scar on his face smears into ugly swirls. “If you see what you want: take it. If someone is withholding it from you: find a way around them.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Blood and Gold

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written in the 2012 [Inception Reverse Bang](http://i-reversebang.livejournal.com/) for the [art](http://lick-j.livejournal.com/1062389.html) created by the wonderful [Lick_j](http://lick_j.livejournal.com) and beta'd by the ever glorious [columbine-and-asphodel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/columbine_and_asphodel/pseuds/columbine_and_asphodel).

 

Arthur is standing in Cobbler’s Square when Jon Snow and his contingent of Watchmen come through the Gate of the Gods and into King’s Landing. Arthur sees merchants and citizens alike turn towards the upheaval caused by the sudden arrival. The citizens of King’s Landing are all still bruised and battered, but Arthur sees healing in their faces and eyes. These are people who learned how to pick themselves up from the dirt of a war.

Arthur turns from the excitement slowly, bored. The silk vendor Arthur had been dealing with is still looking at the black clothed crows with rapt attention. Arthur clears his throat once and then twice again when the man fails to return his attention to Arthur.

“Wrap it up,” Arthur commands him, handing the man more than enough coin. “Quickly.”  
  
Arthur casts a scowl at the vendor’s greasy hands when he’s finally handed his package, but he doesn’t remain in the Square long. He tucks his silks under his arm and lifts his hood. He heads in the direction of the Red Keep.

Arthur pauses just long enough in the mouth of an alley that he can watch Jon Snow the very moment the Lord Commander passes him.

As Arthur expects, when Lord Snow passes him the man’s dark eyes pass right over him, as they do every other person in the square. Arthur knows that it’s not humans that Jon Snow fears any longer. It’s only dead men that walk again, blue eyes cast wide, that take Snow’s notice anymore.

Arthur loses interest in the spectacle again and resumes his trek. He knows that some men measure the changes that war brought in blood and shield. Arthur, a Magister’s son of the Free Cities, measures the change in gold.

Westeros isn’t what it once was.

X-_X-_X

Arthur sidles into the pub behind a man thrice his own size. He goes to great lengths to make sure he’s not unduly noticed but he doubts the extra care is needed. Most all the men he sees are more interested in their drink, the wenches on their knees, or brawling on the scum laden floor.  
  
Arthur’s sharp eyes slide over City Guards, merchants, and tradesmen and find the figure he’s looking for tucked into a shady corner, whispering with two other men and flicking Tyroshi betting cards around with ease. Arthur has no doubt that before the night has ended the man he’s come to find will have emptied the other two men’s purses.

As is usual when Arthur is tempted into taking an extra moment to regard the man he has come to find he can feel his body tingle with the usual tendrils of need. Of medium complexion and hair the other man is broad, but he moves with ease; agility that Arthur finds compelling. Arthur’s spent nights in Lysene brothels, but none of the pleasure houses of Lys have a man like this common sellsword that Arthur’s come to deal with.

Arthur moves across the pub and then into the space between the two men betting with the sellsword. Grey-blue eyes flicker up to smirk amusedly at him, but neither of the other men have noticed Arthur at their backs.

Arthur lets his eyes slide over the tattoos just visible on the skin of the sellsword’s collar and forearms. They’re far more beautiful and creative that those of the Dothraki. Arthur imagines what he would pay in a pleasure house just for the chance to run his mouth over tattoos like these.

But the men of Westeros are not like the men of the Free Cities, and even with a new ruler on the Iron Throne men with tastes like Arthur’s are not oft appreciated; men who would trade every one of Lord Baelish’s whores for a night with a man of this sellsword’s caliber.

Arthur takes his eyes from the sellsword’s body and coughs, lightly, in the space not occupied between the two men. As expected they jump, and one goes so far as to draw a dagger from its sheath. Arthur sighs.

“Are you betting tonight, Arthur?” the sellsword asks, ignoring the two men still scowling threateningly at Arthur. Though, Arthur notices that the sellsword swipes all the coin from the table quickly enough.  
  
“What would I have need to bet for?” Arthur asks. He stares down the smaller of the two scowling men until the man flushes and looks away. “I have more gold Dragons than you’re ever to likely see on contract.”

The sellsword leans forward on the table and talks lower, his voice what might be considered a whisper in a quieter room, but in the busy pub can’t be much less than a normal tone. “You’ve been asking for my name, haven’t you? Courting whores and fish mongers to find out. Bet me, and it’s yours if you win.”

Arthur grins, and this is why he’s allowed himself to seek the other man out. Arthur may not allow himself to touch, and very rarely to look. But since their first haphazard meeting at a public beheading Arthur’s taken it as part of his duty to undermine the sellsword as much as possible.

Arthur leans between the two men, and leans down next to the sellsword’s ear. “Aemon,” he whispers.

Arthur’s disappointed when the other man fails to do little else than smirk. Arthur had tipped the lowest of low men to find the name out.

“Excuse us, yeah?”

The two men don’t deny the sellsword his request, and if they’re sad for the loss of their money they don’t show it. Arthur takes one of their abandoned chairs after they leave and shifts aside the pint of ale in front of him distastefully. “What is it then if I got it wrong?”  
  
“You didn’t,” is the simple reply that Arthur gets. “But that hasn’t been my name since I left Westeros the first time, the bastard son of a ruined Tyrell maiden.”  
  
Arthur doesn’t retort. He’ll not be tempted into asking the question twice.

Aemon, or not-Aemon, reclines against the pub’s shabby wall and grins openly at Arthur. This sellsword that Arthur happened across has never lacked confidence in any of the times Arthur’s dealt with him. When Arthur allows for wandering thoughts he muses if it isn’t the confidence he’s attracted to.

“What’ll you give me for my name?” not-Aemon asks.

“Are you asking me to be a trading man or a betting man? Because I am neither.”

“My name is worth so little to you after you’ve been bribing everyone save the Silent Sister’s for it?”  
  
“Hardly. I haven’t tried bribing the High Septon yet.”

“Scandalous, Arthur. Really, simply _sacriligeous_ of you.”

“My people have no need for the Seven Gods of this kingdom.”

“Your people have no need for proper clothing half the time but I don’t see you wandering the streets bereft of your fine clothes either.”

Arthur crosses his arms, mindful of the package of silks still tucked in his cloak. Arthur’s aware that the same runaround occurs every time he calls on the services of this man. But his services are invaluable.

“How much is left on your contract? I’ll pay it.” Arthur only makes the offer to see the response. Considering the acclaim ‘The Forger’ wrought on the battlefield he’s likely been paid thrice his contract price thrice times over.

“I’ve a better bet,” not-Aemon leans forward.

Arthur leans forward as well, to humor him and hear the offer.

“What if you show me what pleasures they teach you young Pentoshi men tonight, and I tell you my name in the morning?” not-Aemon’s voice is smoother than the silks Arthur bought earlier in the square.

Arthur feels heat curl like licks of flames up from his toes to the tips of his ears. “I can offer you any of the riches of Pentos’ coffers and you ask for something you Westerosi condemn? I doubt your gambling skills now.”

“They’re your father’s coffers,” the sellsword replies flatly. “I’m asking for what I want from you.”

Arthur’s more than half shocked. The Dothraki storming the streets of his fair Pentos couldn’t put Arthur in half the disarray he feels himself in.

Aemon seems to take it as rejection, though his listless shrug is good natured. “Can’t blame a man like me for trying can you? A sellsword like me looks for little else than the day’s most opulent pleasure, or isn’t that what you said the day they cut the Red Witch’s head from her shoulders outside of Baelor’s Sept?”

  
Arthur’s not bated into the old argument. He has the sudden, stunning urge to show Aemon his villa back in Pentos. Marble, silk, silver and gold. Arthur thinks the scars and calluses of the sellsword would look resplendent spread across the Myrish sheets of Arthur’s bed there.  
  
Arthur rises. There’s little else left for him to do. He’s not an avid seeker of pain, and an affair with a sellsword, a man who’s off to seek the next battlefield and paycheck when the opportunity arises, is little else but pain.

Aemon watches him. His eyes look blue now, and Arthur’s spent too many small council meetings thinking of the color changing abilities of those very eyes. Before Arthur can hurry away he remembers the package in his cloak, and pulls it out to lay on the table.

“Payment for the information you offered a fortnight ago,” Arthur says, he plucks a finger under the light rope around the package and it opens to display the fine silks. “You seemed so fond of my Pentoshi garments; I thought a few of your own would be more apt when you seem to have so much gold already.”

Aemon’s hand sneaks over the table quicker than a sand viper. Arthur’s startled.

“Eames,” Aemon says, his eyes on Arthur’s mouth “My name is Eames, and you should use it.”

Arthur nods. He could buy the lives of every man in the pub and he’s held to cowardice in the presence of a common sellsword.

“What did you do with the information I gave you?” Eames asks, his forefinger and thumb still clasped around Arthur’s wrist.

“We found the rat,” Arthur says. He watches the line of Eames’ throat when the man swallows. “The last of the spider’s network. He’s in the dungeons now. He’ll tell us what we need to know by the morrow.”

“Do you think it’s worth it?” Eames asks, fast and serious like he’s in the Dothraki Sea bargaining for an oilskin of water. “Do you think cutting away every piece of the old kingdom will keep war away and your ruler safe?”  
  
“My father does,” there’s a serving girl laughing shrilly into a rotund man’s ear at the next table over. Everything about this bled dry kingdom makes Arthur’s skin crawl. “I am of Pentos, do I care for this ruler and this land?”  
  
“I don’t think you do,” Eames says, and he lets Arthur’s wrist go finally. “Why are you here? For blood or for gold?”

“Dorne bled and got their kingdom back, the Starks bled and the North is full of Wildmen now, why would I be here for blood?”  
  
“You’re not different that I am, you try and try, but you’re not, it's gold that's important—,”

“My father helped pay for this kingdom,” Arthur doesn’t know why he feels hurt now, why he feels like Eames was looking for some kind of answer all along, “and I’ll help him earn every piece of silver back. Then I will willingly leave this kingdom to the lions and wolves and krakens and whoever else wants it. I’ll never be so happy as the day I return to Pentos.”

Eames lets Arthur leave. But he looks dissatisfied, and he looks thoughtful.

X-_X-_X

Arthur thinks that the true victor of the war was Tyrion Lannister. Even now, sitting in a small council meeting, he looks at the man less than half his height and feels intimidated.

Arthur’s the keeper of the coin now, minister of loans, and manager of all things valuable for the kingdom. When Littlefinger flew from the Eyrie so did the secrets of Westeros’ loans. Arthur builds the kingdom a new tax, and he helps the kingdom prosper. Arthur does it because his father sent him from Pentos to do so.

It’s his father that owes allegiance to the new ruler. Not Arthur.

Across from Arthur is Tyrion Lannister. Amongst all that sit the small council now the Lannister is the only one that Arthur believes deserves to be there.  It was Tyrion Lannister that won the war. It was his mind that found the strategy that worked.

Arthur thinks that Tyrion Lannister was never so lucky as the day he put a bolt through his father’s groin and fled with the help of Varys. Tyrion has no official post on the council, but no man dares suggest taking his head from his shoulders because of his Lannister blood. They know the worth of his mind outweighs the weight of the gold of Casterly rock and the blood in his veins.

  
Arthur also thinks the imp was never so happy as the day his sister lost her mind while being consumed by flame. In the throne room, in a method so reminiscent of the Targaryens, she lost the last of her power and then her life. Pages cluster outside the stables and whisper that when Tyrion found out about his sister’s violent death he smiled and wept tears of happiness.

The story bores Arthur whenever he hears it. The Westerosi have never played the game of thrones well. His people would have done better he thinks.

Arthur’s brooding on when his father will allow his to return to Pentos when the meeting adjourns. With no small shock Arthur realized that Tyrion remains seated, looking at Arthur.

When the hall is empty the blond lord speaks. “You’ve something on your mind, goldkeeper.”

Arthur almost smiles on reflex. There’s not an ounce of respect in the Lannister’s voice, just a desire to know, to plot, and to have information available to him. The sharpest mind in generations sits atop the smallest set of shoulders Casterly Rock has ever had rule.

“I’m sure I know not what you mean,” Arthur supplies. He’s not trying to sound sincere.

“Tell me do you miss your homeland?”  
  
“Yes,” Arthur sits back, brings his goblet of wine to his lips idly. “I hope to return there soon enough.”

“And do you miss the lover you left there?”  
  
Arthur cocks his head and pauses before answering. The Lannister has a sparkle in his eye that suggests he knows more about the conversation than Arthur does. “I had no paramour in Pentos.”

“I’m not speaking of a paramour, boy. I mean the man you had take you to bed every night. I’m talking about who you fucked, not who you may have loved.”

Arthur can’t stop the scowl that steals across his face. It’s the thought of his father’s displeasure that Arthur thinks about first. Information like what the imp has could do much to destroy Arthur’s reputation in Westeros.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

Tyrion rolls his eyes and helps himself to wine. “You have nothing to fear from me. I used to employ guards with your particular tastes. You could trust them to watch a lady, or well, she wasn’t a lady I suppose. Just a whore. But still, I have no use for the knowledge of where you put your cock. Can it help the kingdom? Will it make gold? No.”

“Then why do you care to discuss such things, Lannister?”

“No respect with you Free City men,” Tyrion wears a gold rings with the House Lannister arms on it. It glints when he gestures with his hands. “I simply mean to tell you that you don’t belong here.”

Arthur’s back stiffens. “I’m well aware--,”

“Not because of your choice in lovers,” The Lannister talks down to him. “You don’t belong here because you could care less about this Gods forsaken kingdom.”

“No,” Arthur agrees easily. His tone is sharp as flint. “It could burn for all I care.”

“It very nearly did once. Wildfire, nasty business that.”

Arthur rises from his chair. He straightens his clothing, refuses to look anything else but proud. “Do you need anything else from me, my lord?”

“Now you speak with respect,” Tyrion throws his hands up in mock-shock “No, of course I don’t _need_ anything from you. But we were just having such a good chat; won’t you retake your seat?”  
  
Arthur remains standing.

“Fine,” Tyrion refills his goblet yet again. “I merely had wanted to offer you advice.”

“What advice of yours could I have use for? How to slay mine own kin?”

It’s a low dig, and nothing Tyrion hasn’t heard before. As such it hardly causes the blond to twitch. “No,” he replies “You have the look of a man who knows there is something he wants that he cannot have. I have experience in that. You see, I’m only being friendly.”

“I will get to return to Pentos one day, so I’m afraid that your advice is not necessary.”  
  
Tyrion hums. “I wasn’t talking about Pentos, you idiot. I’m talking about whatever son of a whore you’re fucking.”

Arthur quells rage. His respect for Tyrion Lannister may not survive the conversation. “I see you have more little birds whispering information to you than even Varys had.”

“No,” Tyrion says plainly “No, I know the look that lingers about you.”

“I don’t share the greed of Westeros,” Arthur says “I won’t take what isn’t mine. What cannot be mine.”

“No, you don’t share the greed of Westeros, just the stubbornness of every Westerosi man from the Iron Islands to Dragonstone. I’m trying to give you advice. _Take it_.”

Arthur blows air out glares. “What is your advice then, lord Lannister?”  
  
Tyrion leans forward on the table. He grins and every scar on his face smears into ugly swirls. “If you see what you want: take it. If someone is withholding it from you: find a way around them.”

“Is that all?” Arthur asks loftily. He turns from the table, stalking away before the imp can say anything more to his face.

“Be careful boy, you never know when a garrison of men will be waiting to rape what you love. To make her plead and bleed and leave begging and holding a hand full of silver in payment!”  
  
Arthur refrains from shivering as the shout lingers in the cavernous hall. He pulls his silken robes righter about him and quickens his pace. Tyrion Lannister sounds like he knows his own words all too well.

X-_X-_X

“Arthur, you surprise me. I didn’t know you had it in you to come to a place like this.”

Arthur sighs and figures he should have known he couldn’t avoid Eames for long. All their run-ins in the weeks before Arthur now realizes weren’t by accident.

“Well you don’t surprise me at all, Eames. I expect you in places of low moral near constantly.”

Arthur had found purchase on the wide balcony of a popular whore house. He wasn’t there for the pleasure though; he was there for the sight of the sea that the post offered him.

Arthur turns from the bay, but keeps one hand on the marble rail like an anchor. “How did you find me hear?”

“I followed you, naturally.”

“I paid the matron two gold dragons to make sure I wasn’t disturbed.”

“Aye, and I paid her three.”

Arthur almost smirks back as Eames’ face becomes impish and smug. “Can an unemployed sellsword afford such extravagant purchases?”

“A sellsword may not be able to,” Eames answers “But a man of his own free means can.”

“What do you mean?”

“Arthur, I hate to correct you on things because I know how that tends to blacken your day, but on this you’ll have to forgive me. I’m not a sellsword.”

“Yes you are,” Arthur says slowly “You fought in the war for the Golden Company. There are people that sing of you.”

“I was a sellsword, you’re not wrong.”

“Don’t play games. I’ve not the patience for it.”

Eames steps forward. He doesn’t mind the post that Arthur’s found. Sweet, warm summer air wafts from the bay, over the walls, and then to them. “I’m not a sellsword now.”

“So what have you chosen as your new illustrious career? Are you to gamble and drink in pubs now? Or no, that’s what you did before as well.”

Eames grins. Arthur’s anger is both hot and cold, and he’s afraid that after so many meetings with the man he’s fairly attracted to it. “You’re not in Pentos now.”

“And you’ve stated the obvious. Is this truly the extent of your wit?”

“I’m trying to tell you, Arthur, that I am _not_ a sellsword, waiting for a contract and likely to leave for distant shores. And you, Arthur, are _not_ a son of Pentos any longer. You’ve no real duty here or there. Where does your father’s power truly lie? Across the sea.”

Arthur turns back towards the bay, exasperated. “I don’t understand what you’re getting at. Leave me in peace, just this once.”

Eames stretches a hand out and clasps Arthur’s shoulder. “I’m asking if you’d like to go on an adventure with me.”

Arthur can feel the warmth of Eames’ hand under his silks, but that caution doesn’t stop him from jolting in surprise. “Are you really asking me to leave King’s Landing with you? Are you mad?”

“Quite in control of my own mind, thank you, Arthur.”

“How could you expect that I’d go with you?”

“Because you hate everything about Westeros, your life, and your most honorable duties to your father.”

“That’s not true!”  
  
“Isn’t it?”

Arthur’s breathing hard and not far off from striking the other man. “How dare you.”

“How dare I what? Tell you the truth? Oh no, heavens me, I’ve committed the almightiest of sins. Take me to the Sept this instant, I need confess to the Septon.”

“You think I hate Westeros?” Arthur asks incredulously.

“You do, darling, I hate to tell you but it’s obvious to me and to every lord or drifter that’s spent more than half a moment with you.”

Arthur’s jaw works furiously but no sound comes out. If he were home no one would dare say such a thing to him. The servants would be scattering to the halls.

“If I’ve lied to you, then I apologize,” Eames forces his way between the rail and Arthur “But I’ll not beg your forgiveness for telling you the truth.”

“What do you expect me to say to you?” Arthur demands. The bits of him that are pressed against Eames are shaking. Whether with rage or with fear even Arthur can’t tell.

“I honestly don’t know.”

Arthur pushes away. He heads towards the drapes and back inside but changes his mind at the last moment and just retreats to the other side of the balcony. He has the feeling there’s more than one whore with her ear towards the balcony drapes.

“There’s no way I could do such a thing. Leave everything I know and go with a man I’ve no real knowledge of.”

“Couldn’t you?” Eames shrugs from where he is and doesn’t try to approach Arthur. “People do it all the time. Lads take off for city work, girls run away with baker’s sons, a poor child of the street steals from a lord’s purse just for the sake of being sent to the Wall. People are brave all the time, Arthur. They think of dreams outside of their sight.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Arthur’s voice is fast becoming shrill and panicked. “I could never to such a foolhardy thing. My father would disown me.”

Eames grunts and rolls his eyes heavenward. “Your father is thousands of leagues away in Pentos, Arthur.”

“You’re ridiculous,” he repeats again.

“Am I?” Eames opens his arms and leans forward like an offering for R’hllor “Tell me you couldn’t have whatever life you desired.”

Arthur crosses the distance to stand in front of Eames. When he took the first step he was certain he was going to strike the man. Now, standing there in front of him so open, and so vulnerable, he puts a hand to the man’s hip instead.

Arthur closes his eyes.  
  
Eames wastes no time. He thinks the whores will keep this one secret of theirs. He leans forward and kisses Arthur. It’s simple, sloppy, and Eames thinks it’s completely necessary.

“I’m going to be at the Mud Gate tomorrow,” Eames says. Arthur can taste Dornish wine on his lips, and he wonders why he’s more calmed by the knowledge than panicked. “I’m leaving when the sun is high, and taking my time finding my next great adventure. You are welcome to join me Arthur, or you can remain here.”

When Eames presses him Arthur nods to show that he understands. Eames leaves Arthur the way he found him, melancholy and staring at the bay.

X-_X-_X

Eames tightens the straps holding his pack to his horse and casts one last glance at the busy city entrance. It’s past noon and he can’t wait any longer. He has to leave, and it looks like he’ll be leaving alone.

Eames tries not to think too much about travelling alone again. He was alone before he joined the Company and he’s alone after it. There’s not much difference.

He grabs the reins and nods to the gold cloak closest to him. King’s landing will soon be behind him. He has a fine summer day to travel on, and coin in his purse. He can handle having no wars to fight in, no blood to spill. He can handle regular living.

“How heavy is that pack?” comes a voice from his right. “Are you planning on taking half the market with us?”

Eames waits a beat before turning, smiling where he’s sure the owner of the voice won’t be able to see.

“Arthur, late for once in your life? Have you fallen ill?”

“No, for the first time in a long time I feel perfectly fine,” Arthur admits. He has a light pack slung over his back, and supple leather boots on his feet. For the first time since Eames met him Arthur is dressed in the coarse fabrics of the locals, not a single silken tunic in sight.

“You’re going to like this adventure, Arthur,” Eames promises. He feels giddy.

“I better,” Arthur grouses. His features are light and he’s grinning. His tone doesn’t match the way he smiles at all.

Eames wraps an arm briefly around Arthur’s shoulders, touches their foreheads together and then shouts. “Well let’s get a move on! And don’t think we’re stopping when you get the first blister of your life an hour from now. We’ve proper hiking to do today.”  
  
“Whatever,” Arthur mutters. He stalks past Eames, cuts around a man and his cart coming in the gate, and doesn’t so much as glance in Eames’ direction.

Eames jerks the reins in his hand and starts walking himself and his horse out of the gate. It won’t due to tarry; Eames expects that Arthur will set a grueling pace just to prove he can.

Eames looks forward to it.


End file.
